#typist speaks

[medicinemane]

Can I just for a minute complain as someone dyslexic about how when I was young everyone would always be like "well look up the spelling in the dictionary"?

Just now, I go to type a word and I spell it something like "erevicobly", which is obviously wrong, but... no idea

Well, I throw it in the search engine* and find out it's irrevocably (didn't spell it right there either, but got it close enough spellcheck could fix it)

Now you might notice something here, which is if I'd looked it up in the dictionary, I wouldn't have found it, no matter how long and hard I searched, because I'd be looking under "er" not "ir"

So do you see why that advice made me mad as hell as a kid, and I stand by my feelings today?

*literally one of the few ways search engines are a blessing is being a really great way to find spellings

[moonglittering]

☢ What fads/trends are you so over?

✨ @the27percent. meme. still accepting!

icons that look like this,

[andifthestarsweretodie]

Love being in a butch/femme relationship with a straight man (I'm nb, queer and the femme)

[hereticpriest]

Bite

Rating: Mature?

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x reader

Warnings: Heavily implied odaxelagnia, period typical misogyny, period typical relationship culture, period typical discussion of a physical disability.

Note: Kincsem means 'my treasure' and szerelmem means 'my love' in Hungarian.

Warmth sinks into your back as you lean heavily against the strong legs and plush sofa behind you, chasing away the chill you might've had from sitting on the cold floor. Your upper body is wedged somewhat between bony knees and soft thighs, holding you in place in case you were to fall asleep. It wouldn't be the first time. A blissful sigh leaves your lips as you nuzzle your cheek against your arms, pillowed beneath your head and draped lazily over your dear doctor's thigh. The fingers of his non-dominant hand comb shyly through your hair, still learning to touch you with what he refers to as his deformity when he manages to speak of it.

His voice, thickly accented when he's as relaxed as he is now in the fire's crackling light with you at his feet, lilts over the words of whatever book he's chosen to read for you tonight. You haven't absorbed much of it, though you believe it to be a text rather than a novel - delving into the science behind love, how quaint - since he keeps pausing to underline passages as he goes. He doesn't ever seem to do that with novels - that's your territory. He often remarks that he likes to read some of his favourites again after you've made your way through them simply because he likes to read the little notes you've jotted down in the margins.

You let out a plaintive noise as he removes his hand from your hair, blinking open heavy-lidded eyes to look up at him with all the disgruntled displeasure of a toddler told no. His eyebrow raises at you as if to ask what you plan to do about it, and you scoff, shifting your arm ever so slightly to give you room to sink your teeth into the meat of his thigh. He yelps, fisting your hair in order to wrench your head back, and you let him. Your lips form a smug grin, eyes half-lidded and smouldering. The would-be pain of having your hair pulled bleeds into pleasure instead, sparking like wildfire under your skin.

"No biting, kincsem." He murmurs, guiding your head back down to his leg delicately for a man who’d just yanked on your hair. You wait on baited breath to see if he'll keep touching you, and hum with delight when he does, indulging you despite the fact that it reinforces your unfortunately bratty behaviour. He's been trying to get you out of the habit of biting since you met, with very little success. First, as a typist at the Kreizler Institute with a bad habit of biting the skin around your nails - stress induced, due to the pressure from your parents to marry instead of working for him. He had recommended a healthy outlet for your stress and a set of gloves to redirect you, and while the gloves did work when you weren’t actively typing, you hadn’t yet found an outlet for your stress. Then, your parents found a suitor for you willing to overlook your unfortunate desire to make something of yourself beyond a wife and mother, which led to you biting the thenar eminence of your dominant hand until you had to wear gloves to hide the marks and bruises. The gloves were somewhat of a deterrent when you wore them, as you learned to get quite adept at wearing them while typing, and had to pull them up to bite properly.

As you were reluctantly contemplating the aforementioned suitor's offer of courtship, Laszlo came to you with an offer of his own, a decidedly sweeter offer despite your parent's distaste for foreigners and lack of respect for his profession. He was still a wealthy man (wealthier than the alternative) of good standing (relative to the man they'd found for you) with a somewhat prestigious job, who wished to marry you with some level of expediency. Up until that point, you'd done your best to look at Laszlo as Dr. Kreizler - your boss first, and a man a distant second - in order to avoid any misunderstandings or scandals. You did not acknowledge his good looks, or his delectable accent, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you. None of those things were relevant to your job. Somehow, you’d managed to do quite well in removing the man of him from the equation.

When he proposed a courtship, it had not been a way to save you from a worse fate like you might have feared it to be if you'd ever even had an inkling to the idea that he might ask. Which you hadn’t, because you had blinded yourself to him willfully to achieve a healthy working relationship. An entire world of possibility opened up between you when he forced your hand and made you finally acknowledge him as something other than your polite and kind boss, Dr. Kreizler. Your good doctor had asked you with sweetly pink cheeks and a flustered tongue, an honest fear in his eyes as he attempted quite needlessly to be forthright about his faults and how he might make up for them. You knew who he was. As you allowed yourself to think of him as an option, you realised how good of a man he truly was. He wasn’t a perfect man, certainly. He had a habit of being manipulative, and was far too shrewd not to recognize it. He lacked some social graces, which had given him the ability to see people that society had shunned, but also made him a bit abrasive at times. He was profoundly intelligent, which led him to sometimes confront people with the things they did not want to be faced with.

And yet, he was kind. Compassionate. He saw beyond your pretty wrapping to the heart of you, and appreciated both. He indulged you even when you were difficult. He gave everyone a chance based on merit, not class. His love warmed you like a fire, and very rarely burned you in equal measure. He was incredibly handsome, distinguished, and carried his age well. He dressed well, groomed himself appropriately and his voice made you quake. His arm did little if anything at all to quell your passion for him, once he lit the fire. All it took was one spark for you to burn.

It was as if the moment he began courting you, you began to see things you had never noticed before. Things that had always been there, and yet you had been completely blind to them. Despite the difficulty it gave him, he always pulled out your chair for you. He offered you his arm anytime you two had to walk anywhere together, and helped you in and out of the carriage despite having Cyrus there to do it for him. You, quite by accident, noticed him staring at you in the quiet moments in his office while you were typing up his notes for him, or taking his dictation. It wasn't the first time, though you had always passed it off as the man thinking, the direction of his gaze less important than the thoughts running through his brilliant mind. It wasn’t until you knew the fire in his eyes when he looked upon something he wanted that you began to recognize it in his gaze whenever he was looking at you.

Once, long before your courtship began, he had invited you to dinner with his motley crew of investigators at the Delmonico. You remember playfully remarking that you would have to buy a new dress for the occasion, only to find a dressbox laying on your desk the following morning when you came into work. Your insistence that he not waste his money on you was met with a disdainful look at the simple notion and a reminder that it would be impolite to refuse a gift given in earnest. Your parents would have had a fit if they knew you accepted such a gift from a man, but what they didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt you. Every compliment from Ms. Howard and Mr. Moore made Laszlo subtly preen, apparently pleased to have picked something that suited you so well. You had thought his behaviour a tad odd - inviting the group's admiration of your dress, subtle as it may have been, was certainly not the doctor's usual style.

You had kept yourselves to courtship rules, holding hands only in presence of a chaperone for your good public image, what little remained. He took you on several long, chaperoned walks in between dinners with your family, and exchanged letters with you despite the fact that he saw you nearly every day for work. Your engagement swiftly followed, perhaps a bit faster than might’ve been acceptable if your parents hadn’t been in such a rush to be rid of you. The first time he kissed you, you swore you heard and felt him whimper. He was endlessly gentle with you, cherishing you in ways you never expected. He loved you long before you even knew that was a possibility, and he had hungered. Your next bite was to his lower lip, and then his chin, and then his neck. Instead of using gloves to redirect you, he now wore higher collars or guided your nipping mouth further down under his clothing.

It was a happy marriage. It is a happy marriage. Only a couple of months in and you’ve never been happier in your entire life. Your doctor, your husband, takes very good care of you. You want for nothing, except a moment more of his time. Just one more look. One more touch. One more kiss. You’re voracious - he’s accused you multiple times of being spoiled with a fondness in his voice that said he was perfectly okay with that. You think he’s been so hungry for you for so long that it’s only fair that you suffer the same ailment.

Your doctor combs your hair back from your face, leaning over you just the slightest bit to see your open eyes before he speaks, “You, my little wife, have not heard a single word I have said for the last hour, have you?”

You smile against your arm.

“Oh, no, my love. I was definitely listening.” You correct him, and he sighs, stroking the pad of his thumb over your plush lips and inviting a bite he knows is coming. He barely even flinches as you clamp your teeth around his skin, then he does shudder when you pull his thumb into your mouth.

“Some day, I will rid you of this compulsion.” he murmurs, and you bite around the base of his thumb before letting him pull free of you. His hand slips below the neck of your nightgown, and you shiver at the wet swipe across your nipple.

“You hardly want to, husband. Deny it all you like, we both know you like when I bite.”

He smirks, his strong hand slipping under your arms to help you stand on shaky, numb legs. Despite himself, he likes when you walk like a baby deer around him, whether due to his nightly (and often daily) passions, or simply because you like to kneel at his feet so often until your legs go numb.

“Come to bed, szerelmem. I think there’s still an inch of my neck that is yet to be bruised.” He teases, and you laugh, leaning into him as he helps you towards your bedroom. You’ve no doubt he’ll find yet another way to make your legs shake before the end of the night.

[sagesolsticewrites]

Dear...

A series of letters from one Lt. Harry Crosby to his wife 🤍 (a sort-of continuation of Just Say Yes, but can be read as a standalone!)

My darling wife,

‘Wife.’ I’ll never get tired of saying that.

How are you, darling? I hope you’re not worrying about me too much; I promise, I’m staying as safe as I can, and someday soon this war will end and I’ll have you back in my arms once more.

I miss you more than words can say, sweetheart. You occupy my every waking thought, and all of my dreams at night. Some of the things I dream can’t be written (you know what I mean), but I hope to be back with you soon so I can make them a reality.

All my love, and a thousand kisses,

Your Harry

My most darling husband, I know you didn’t just try to tell your wife not to worry about you! I know how capable you are, but there will always be a part of me that worries.  I’m keeping as busy as I can. I’ve found a job as a typist at the factory here! It’s not quite the job I’ve always dreamed of, but anything I can do to help you boys! Violet from two doors down works there as well, and I’ve made friends with a few of the other girls there, so you don’t need to worry about me being lonely over here. Be safe, my love, and I’ll be counting down the days until I see you again. The swell of joy I feel when I get your letters will surely be nothing compared to being in your arms again. With my deepest love, Mrs. Y/N Crosby P.S. Say ‘Hi!’ to Bubbles for me! P.P.S. I admit I’m intrigued by these dreams you claim you can’t write about… I don’t even get a hint?

Sweetheart,

‘Mrs. Y/N Crosby’ I don’t think a prettier sequence of letters has ever existed…

A job! Darling, I’m so proud of you.

Though now I can’t help but wonder at every piece of paper arriving on base here— did you type those words? Perhaps it’s just me wishing you were closer, but I like to think every piece of paper coming in with the supplies came from your hand.

Speaking of paper, was that a hint of your perfume I detected on your last letter? It was a wonderful reminder of you, my love. 

There are flowers blooming in the fields here. I’m not sure what kind they are, but they’re beautiful so of course they made me think of you. I’ve enclosed a few that I’ve pressed, and I can only hope they make the journey to you in one piece. If not, well… I send my apologies and a promise that I’ll make up for it with all the fresh flowers you could want when I’m home.

Bubbles says ‘hi’ back, and wants me to tell you that he’s making sure I’m safe (though I’m sure you know it’s clearly the other way around— no, I’m only joking, honey. We keep each other safe.)

As for your question regarding certain dreams… I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you in suspense, my dear, at least for now.

Your unspeakably proud husband,

Harry

[enclosed: a variety of small pressed wildflowers]

Honey,

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. Are you getting my letters? I hope so.

How are things going at work? I hope they’re not working my girl too hard. 

You’ll never guess what happened with Bubbles, sweetheart. He was off on pass visiting his girl over in Norwich, and the poor guy caught a stomach bug! He won’t be flying anytime soon, so I’m taking his place for a bit. Frankly I’m not sure how flying with me will be any different from flying with Bubbles with a stomach bug…

I miss you with all my heart, honey. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

Goodbye for now, angel. I hope I hear from you soon.

Love,

H

My brave Bing, Poor Bubbles! Hopefully he’s recovered by now. Tell him hello for me! And I hope your missions went well, darling, and that you’re taking the time to rest when you can. Take care of yourself, my love. Work has been fine, for the most part. Violet and Carol had a bit of a falling out— over what I’m not sure, but it’s made the office fairly awkward. The prevailing theory among the girls is a spat over a boy, though Ruthie’s making a very convincing case for it being an argument over a lost lipstick. I’ll be sure to keep you updated on these riveting (ha) events, as I’m sure you’re as curious about it as we are. Your gifts did make it to me in one piece for the most part, and I’m keeping them safe next to my picture of you. They’re beautiful, darling. In return, I’ve enclosed some pressed roses from our garden. You know I don’t quite have your green thumb, but I’m doing my best (though I am looking forward to the day you’re back home and can take over the gardening duties— the flowers miss you almost as much as I do.) All my love, Mrs. Y/N Crosby

[enclosed: two pressed red roses]

My darling,

Would it surprise you to know the boys now have a bet going as to the reason for your colleagues’ falling out?

I told Bubbles about it, then word apparently spread, and now nearly the entire 100th seems to know the story! (For the record, most of the boys are leaning towards the cause being a boy, though Bubbles is still holding out for Ruthie’s lipstick theory)

Do let us know if the cause for the argument is ever discovered: I’ve got $10 riding on this, sweetheart!

I managed to get a moment to myself yesterday, and found myself walking in the field near where the ground crews were working on the forts. And do you know what happened, honey?

A butterfly landed on my hand.

It was a little orange and black thing, and it only stayed for a moment before flying off, but having that pretty thing choose me as a resting place on its journey to wherever it was off to… it made me miss you more than ever. I wish you could’ve been here to see it.

I love and miss you so much, sweetheart, I couldn’t possibly love you more, and yet every day, my love for you grows. I’m just existing until the day I can take you in my arms again and never let you go.

Millions of hugs, thousands of kisses, and all my love,

Your Harry

My most darling beloved Bing, Ha! I’m glad I could provide some entertainment from so far away, honey. Tell Bubbles to rejoice: Mary found a lipstick tube that had rolled into a corner behind her desk, and Vi and Carol have agreed to be friends again, imagine that! You didn’t tell me which side of the bet you were on, sweetheart, but knowing you I imagine you sided with Bubbles as always. Do spend your winnings on something sensible— perhaps more paper to write to your poor wife? Oh, my love. You’ll never believe what happened as I was reading your latest letter out in the garden (the weather’s been lovely lately!) A butterfly— black and orange, similar to the one you described seeing all the way over there — landed on the chair next to me. Your chair, darling. Did you send that pretty thing all the way over to me to say hello? I’ll imagine you did.  I love you more than words can say, darling, and so the millions of kisses I’ve enclosed will have to suffice. Stay safe, and I’ll see you when you come home to me. All my love, and then some more, Mrs. Y/N Crosby

[enclosed: in a departure from her usual singular lip print on the page next to her signature, Mrs. Crosby chose instead to enclose an entire extra page covered in its entirety in lip prints 👀💋]

[notyour-valentine]

A Christmas Journey ~ Tommy Shelby (Fluff)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: A Journey back from London in the Christmas Season with his secretary doesn't go as planned

Note: written for @runnning-outof-time and her Holiday Bingo Challenge . You always have such incredible ideas for us to join in on celebrating your milestone - congratulations! I chose forced proximity, a family tradition, subtle hurt/comfort, and (self) confession

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Wordcount: 2473 words

The outside looked like one of these paintings one could buy in a collection to hang in some corner of a large room, a quiet, calm, peaceful scenery, an image of the countryside snoozing under a blanket of freshly fallen snow, coating field, house, and trees alike. 

It was the kind of cold that ought to make one stark a fire and climb under a blanket, warm tea in hand. 

Only it wasn’t a painting, and to Tommy Shelby, there was nothing calming about it. 

The cold, especially a cold like this, meant problems, and problems meant a slowing of work, of traffic, of business. And he had neither time nor means for that. 

The end of the year, of any year, meant hastily signed contracts, quickly closed deals before the new tax year would start, as well as end-of-year obligations, useless mingling for Christmas parties, dinners, company celebrations, and the like, as well as the demand of anyone and everyone wanting a piece of him. 

It meant he was stretched out even more so than usual. 

A particular contract that needed signing before the New Year had made him rush to London earlier today, taking only his suitcase and one of the Birmingham Secretaries with him. That way he had time to fill her in during the train ride there about what was going to be discussed in the meeting. 

She was fairly new, and more a typist than a secretary, with quick, nimble fingers that could dance over the typewriter at a dizzying speed. 

Now she was quite a sight, bundled up against the cold in a thick coat, with scarves and gloves, and a hat that drowned out her face. 

She had taken those off once inside the train compartment and was now removing her coat as well, revealing what looked to be a home-knitted woolen cardigan. 

Tommy glanced up from his reading, a business report about the annual revenues from one of his factories, as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, only to see she had changed her mind, instead offering him an embarrassed smile. 

With a hum he returned to his reading, only to see her scoot about on her seat out of the corner of his eye. 

“Mr. Shelby?”, she asked after a moment, unable to keep still “Is there any task you have for me during our ride back?”

Tommy considered for a moment, but there was no way she could transcribe with the bumpy up and down of the train, so he shook his head. 

“Would it bother you if I did some knitting then?”, she asked, reaching for her hand. 

“It’s a tradition in our family - my Ma’ always makes sure we get a new pair of socks in each year’s stocking and this time I wanted to surprise her with a pair of her own, even though it’s a bit foolish.”

She offered him an embarrassed smile. 

“I’m not much good so I’ve had to start over.”

“Fine.”, Tommy grumbled. 

What a silly gift, he thought, remembering the knitted socks from his earlier days. They had been warm enough, but not perfectly so.

Bothersome to mend, and too thick in good shoes, he had had no qualms about throwing them out a few years back in exchange for softer, more delicate Merino socks, which were just as warm. 

“Thank you!”, she said, beaming from ear to ear as she reached into her bag and pulled out a ghastly dark red ball of wool, and two brown needles, a good half sock hanging from the edges. 

Before she began, she scooted closer to the light source of their compartment, bringing her right across from him. 

Tommy’s eyes returned to the numbers and comparisons, as the clicking began. 

As if the rattling of the train hadn’t already been enough. 

It was persisting, never-ending, click click click, click click, click click click. 

After a few minutes, even the hiss of the wool made his jaw tighten in annoyance. 

The lines on the paper became impossible to read with the neverending sound. 

Click click click, click click click, hiss, click click click. 

Always uneven, always unpredictable. 

It was a sound to make a man go mad. 

“I’ve changed my mind.”, Tommy said sharply, snapping the file shut. “Can you stop?”

She looked up, needles in hand, with thread wrapped around her finger, her eyes wide and round as dinner plates. 

“Oh.”, she gasped surprised, staring at him in disbelief for a split second before she cleared her throat and nodded. 

“Of course Mr. Shelby, I’m sorry, Sir.”

She scrambled to tidy up, hastily twisting the needles and sticking them back into the ball of wool as if she was afraid he’d open the window and toss it out if she wasn’t quick enough in the removal of his ire. 

“No need to apologise.”, he mumbled. 

The moment he opened the file again, they heard the brakes screech as the train came to a slow halt. 

For a split second, there was silence all throughout the train. Then the both of them looked towards the window, seeing only darkness. 

They were in the middle of nowhere. 

Her whispered “Oh no.” gave voice to Tommy’s thought. 

“Wh-what just happened?”, she asked breathlessly, her hands clutching onto her brown leather bag. 

“I’ll see what the conductor says.”, he muttered as he got to his feet. “Just stay here.”

A delay was the last thing he needed when all he wanted was to get home, make the calls to Boston and New York, finish revising that speech, and - there was something else that he knew he had forgotten, but he knew it would come back to him. 

But unless they got moving soon, it wouldn’t matter at all. 

The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a train with a good half hundred strangers, and in a compartment with his little typist. 

That strange feeling of irritation and subtle anger spurred him on as he walked nearly half of the train before he found someone in charge, already swarmed by a dozen other passengers. 

He was lanky as a tree, with a narrow face and small piglike eyes. 

“Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, stay calm!”, he assured them all, both palms outstretched. “Retake your seats, I am sure we will resume the journey shortly. There is no need to be concerned.”

That did little to block off the hail of questions, to which his only response was to flair his hands as if they were all little flies bothering him. 

He had to practically shove them back into their respective compartments all the while nodding and repeating his meaningless babble over and over. 

Tommy stopped his flight to the head of the train. 

“What’s going on?”, he demanded to know. 

“There is no need for concern!”, the conductor told him, “I am sure the journey will resume-”

“The name’s Shelby.”, Tommy hissed, undercutting any attempt of him to repeat his speech for the umpteenth time. 

The man’s little eyes went wide. 

“Oh, well, in that case, Sir, well,”, he began to stammer, wiping his hands on his uniform. 

Tommy raised his brows in impatience, urging him on. 

The man’s face turned the colour of his uniform. 

“Due to the snow, Sir, they are having to clear a railroad switch ahead of us before we can continue safely. It will only be a moment Mr. Shelby, Sir.”

Tommy gave a single nod and patted him on the shoulder before returning to his compartment, thankfully first class, which meant it was mostly abandoned this time of night, with only his secretary being the other one. 

“And?”, she asked breathlessly, getting up from her seat as soon as he entered. 

“It’s fine.”, Tommy assured her, before sitting back down again. 

Even though the door blocked out most of the noise, the restlessness and uncertainty found its way into their compartment, infecting first her and then him too, and more so with every passing second. 

“You know,”, she mumbled after a near half-hour of tense silence and stolen glances out the window, “There’s stories about this happening in the United States. They can’t get the train to work again and the people freeze to death.”

“It’s not the train.”, Tommy told her. 

Besides, it wasn’t that cold. Sure, it was chilly, but nothing compared to the winters spent in the trenches, unable to properly get a fire going. Here they were dry, with a roof over their head and coats and scarves to warm them. 

His secretary didn’t seem convinced. She kept craning her neck to look out the glass door for any sight of any possible change, her hands nervously picking at her bag. 

It was making him nervous too. 

“We won’t freeze to death either.”, he assured her dryly. 

“Are you sure? Because it already feels a lot colder if you think about it. And we are out in the middle of nowhere. No one will know where we are and-”

She shut herself off at the sight of his gaze and quickly averted her eyes, her hands still fidgeting nervously, her whole body shaking. 

What an easy life she must’ve had for a mere thing like an unplanned train stop to put her in this state. 

But then again, she was so young, part of this new, reckless generation who had been little more children during the war. And it was all too easy to paint the world a bit brighter for little ones, to hide the nasty truth behind soft lies and gentle facades. 

And now the girl was unsettled by a little train delay, poor thing. 

Tommy had suffered half a dozen a ride on the trains that carried him back and forth during his time in France. 

Still, when she began trying to breathe heavily to steady her nerves, he felt a pang of pity in his chest. And her nervousness was beginning to irritate him. 

“Why don’t you take up that knitting again?”, he asked.

“Oh no, I don’t want to annoy you.”, she quickly said, shaking her head. 

Tommy huffed, a twitch in the corner of his lips. 

“I’m not reading, so it won’t bother me.”

She was slow to reach for her bag, surveying his every reaction. 

Tommy made sure to give none as she reached for her things, and slowly began to knit again, her eyes darting from her work to his face and back, eager to see any sign of disgruntlement. 

But when she found none, she slowly settled into her knitting more and more, until she was fully focussed on that. 

Tommy allowed himself to watch. The repetitiveness in the motion, even if the sound had irritated him earlier, seemed to calm him now. 

Especially watching the tips of the needles work together, settled his heartbeat. 

It wouldn’t be the most perfect sock, which was clear to see even now, but the longer Tommy watched, the more times she repeated it, the more he felt the idea growing on him. 

But his words, or rather the fact that he said them out loud, even if it was just a mumble, surprised him. 

“I don’t think it is foolish.”

The clicking stopped as she looked up. 

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”, she asked. 

“Earlier,”, Tommy explained, “You said I’d think it foolish. I don’t. It’s a sweet thing to do for your mother.”

She bit her lip and lowered her hands, growing flustered at his words, with a smile forming on her lips. 

“Oh I don’t know.”, she admitted, “I do hope she likes it, but in the end it’s just a little part of Christmas. Our Christmas I mean.”

She offered him another shy smile. 

“It’s not as grand as your Christmasses, I’d wager. With a ten-foot tree and a hundred baubles but it’s nice.”

Tommy hummed in response, as he let his eyes find the darkening landscape. 

These days his Christmasses were like stepping into a glossy catalog, every inch of the house decorated, countless candles shining, a hoard of wrapped presents with large bows, steaming meals, and more sweets than anyone could ever eat in a whole year, let alone a few days. Every treat, every delicacy, it was all right there. 

As it should be, a part of Tommy thought, the part that was proud of all he had achieved and that he could share it with his family, with his son. He alone would receive a dozen presents worth more than a factory worker’s annual wage. 

But another part eyed those slightly uneven socks closer. 

They were far from perfect, and yet every loop was laced with care and effort. 

The memory of the socks his mother and Polly had knitted for him in years past, which he had thrown away as soon as he could afford to, made shame creep up his cheeks. 

He already knew what he would get from them this year - cufflinks from Polly and a tie needle from Ada to match, expensive gifts, undoubtedly. Like every year. 

Expensive, flashy gifts for an expensive flashy holiday. And that was it. 

Nothing close to the memories of his childhood, even if they were feeble and poor in comparison, but at least they had been excited about it, about the food, about the oranges they would sometimes receive, about snow, even about the hymns they’d sing, less for the meaning and more of them all doing something together. 

Singing together, cooking together, decorating together - and now the cooks did the cooking and the maids the decorating. 

All Tommy did was pay. Like with any other day. 

Taking a deep breath, he shifted in his chair and shook his thoughts. 

There was no need to deprive Charlie of all the presents he could afford, anything he could enjoy. But perhaps the boy would want to do a little more than merely opening and receiving gifts. 

Perhaps he’d like a little tree to decorate on his own, just a little one, even if it ended up not nearly as perfect as how Frances would instruct the maids to do it. But then again, those socks wouldn’t be perfect either. 

The longer he thought about it, the more he came to enjoy the idea. 

Maybe they could even take the horses out into the forest and he could pick one for them to cut down. 

Just as it had taken hold in his mind, they heard a mechanic screech before the train slowly started moving. 

“Oh thank God!”, the secretary cried out, dropping her needles in her lap and offering him a relieved smile. 

But Tommy’s mind was already back in that snow-coated forest to the back of Arrow House in which Charlie would choose their Christmas tree. A proper one, not flashy and big, but real.

~

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

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Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul @lothbrokcore @rangerelik

[ralfmaximus]

You realize it’s been over a year since your last eye exam so you take advantage of a coupon for $50 exams at this new place that just opened.

You call the number on the coupon and a rough, heavily Russian voice answers.

“Eye Exam.”

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment to get my eyes checked?”

Moments pass. You hear typing on a keyboard, a pause while the typist takes a long deep drag from a cigarette. More typing. Just as you are about to ask if everything is okay the Russian returns.

“Appointment is made.”

Click. The phone goes dead. Frantic redials to the same number are met with constant ringing – no answer -- thereafter. You give up after a few minutes.

You feel unsettled, worried. Vaguely threatened. You wonder if you should call the police. But… what would you tell them?

Days pass without incident. Soon you forget about the strange call. You make an appointment with LensCrafters for next Thursday at 6pm, after work.

It is 2:10 am that very night the Russians come for you.

You are woken from a deep sleep by a rough hand covering your mouth, muffling any screams. His other hand surrounding your wrist. You jolt awake, heart pounding, legs thrashing but they are prepared for that – another man leans in on the bed and presses his weight onto you, grasping the other wrist with unyielding strength. Defeated, you sag.

The first man leans in close, eyes searching yours. He nods. It is understood you will not scream if released.

“Time for eye appointment, da?”

You nod slowly. Both men let go. You sit up, but before you can get a really good look at them the second Russian produces a black sack and cinches it over your head. It smells faintly of onions.

You are lifted from your bed effortlessly and marched, blind, still in your night clothes, out of your bedroom. There is a brief pause in your living room during which one of your captors makes a phone call. But it is only twenty seconds of rapid-fire Russian and you are led out of your apartment and downstairs into a waiting van. The floor is cold metal and you feel flecks of rust under your bare feet as you are forced down into a sitting position in one corner.

The van drives for 45 minutes.

When the doors open again, you smell salt water and rust. You are lifted and dragged. Your legs are an explosion of crawling pins-and-needles, useless for the time being, scraping across the metal floor and then cold concrete outside the van. You scream but are shaken to silence.

The first Russian leans in close and says, through the hood, “Shut up. Do not speak. You will see many things, but do not speak.”

Your legs slowly come alive and soon you are able to stand as the men lead you forward over concrete and then a wooden ramp, leading up to what feels like tile under your bare feet. The place reeks of diesel oil, fried fish, salt water, and gym socks. Eventually you are led into a place of carpeting and air conditioning and the smells diminish a bit – or perhaps you are becoming used to them.

You are forced into a chair as the hood is whipped off.

Before you, on a table made from a plywood sheet and two saw-horses, is a spanking new Charops CRK-1P autorefractor machine, all smooth curves and sleek plastic. Behind it, on the floor you can see the carton it was unpacked from: plastic sheets, white foam inserts, and pink packing peanuts piled into the empty box. A single pink packing peanut clings to the machine via static electricity.

A hand shoves you from behind.

“Look in machine,” you are told.

You lean forward and press your head against the black forehead bar, triggering the machine. It shows you letters, numbers, images of balloons floating in 3D. You respond to grunted questions about what you see and the clarity of images.

Click! The session ends, the viewer goes dark. A hand yanks your shoulder back and the hood goes on again. Onions and darkness. You are dragged to your feet and led to another room, another makeshift table, another machine.

This happens twice more.

By the third reapplication of the hood (onions, darkness, and now, sweat) you have become numb to the routine. You have always been on a Russian cargo ship, you have always been taking tests, you have always been yanked around by monosyllabic Russians.

Therefore it is a surprise when you are dragged into the same van as before and shoved back into your familiar corner. The van door slides shut again, and the engine revs.

45 minutes later you are back home, standing in your apartment.

The hood comes off for a final time, revealing your original Russian abductor. He holds out his hand: “$100 dollars please.”

You stand there, blinking. Unbelievable.

“What? $100 for what?”

He scowls at you. “Eye exam. $100 for eye exam. Pay now.” He glances meaningfully at his waiting palm.

“I don’t think—“

He rolls this eyes at this, pushes you aside and grabs your wallet off the coffee table behind you.

“Hey! That’s—“

Your wallet is tiny in his huge hands, but with surprising delicacy he extracts two twenties and a ten -- all the cash you have -- holds them up to you accusingly. He does not look amused.

“I, uh… have a coupon.”

He frowns, tasting the word. “Coupon? Coupon. Coupon…”

Further digging in your wallet and he produces the EYE EXAM $50 coupon that started this whole mess. He sighs in defeat, pockets the cash and throws the coupon & wallet back onto the table. Turns to go.

“Wait!”

The Russian stops, turns. Glares at you. This better be important.

“My prescription?”

For the first time, he smiles. A goofy, eye-rolling, head-smacking D’oh! of a smile. Reaches with massive, filthy fingers into a front pants pocket and produces a crumpled sheet of folded copier paper. Throws it at your feet.

“Eye exam,” he nods before leaving your life forever.

[oedcompletionist]

How on earth???

That's so many words! Do you know all of these words? I thought @alphabetcompletionist was dedicated but this is on another level

Truthfully, I don’t think anyone knows All The Words. But the Prophecy speaks of a gallant typist, who will one day come forth and use All The Words, and restore utopia to the world. But until that day, I sit here waiting. And counting.

how, on, Earth, that, be, so, many, word, do, you, know, all, of, these, I, think, dedicated, but, this, another, level, truthfully, not, anyone, the, prophecy, speak, a, gallant, typist, who, will, one, day, come, forth, use, restore, utopia, to, world, until, sit, here, wait, count

46/218,632

[andiv3r]

So, my dad (who has written a novel and started writing many novels) and I (who... uh... well I've started writing a whole lot of stories but... well, you get the picture) decided to collaborate and write a story together yesterday, and uh.

I know for a fact nobody would be able to guess which ones he typed and which ones I typed because his are the ones that sound like a three year old, and mine are the ones that sound like a slightly more mature person. Maybe ten or eleven. So yeah. This is what you get when you put two writers with ADHD in a word document together.

Also, in case you're wondering why it looks like you're only seeing one half of a conversation, that's because you are. Whoever sits at the keyboard is the typist, and he is not allowed to speak. Should he speak, he will be BANISHED TO THE BOTTOMLESS PIT FOR ALL OF ETERNI- no, no, that's not right... oh, right, we swap seats and he doesn't get to be the typist anymore. Because of that, anything the typist says gets jotted down in our notes, and we're not allowed to delete.

Just as a treat I want to attribute ONE statement to each of us, so:

GAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY -my father

FFFFFFFUUUUUCCCCKKKK YYHOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUuuuuu 😊

-me

[auspexsims]

Dear Mother, I promised you a letter a week. If it keeps raining as incessantly as it has been since we arrived, then I suppose soon I will be writing you a letter a day, as I will never be able to explore the city and tell you about it. Olivia has found herself apprentice to a modern day cross between King Eurystheus and Bloody Mary. Madame Rosaline Argent, as she is called, stalks the streets of Myshuno like a banshee, her hair crawling with maggots, her eyes aflame with the Devil’s unholy fires — seeking young women to torment as only that will soothe her weary, wretched, wallowing soul. Her latest victim, a one Olivia Rheist-Calaise, took in hand her ringleader’s whip (sewing needle) and white flag (dress fabric), leaping into the ring to vanquish her - though it was all for naught, as Madame Argent’s power only grew the very single moment a maiden’s soul crossed her threshold. Olivia says she is a well-respected widowed Parisian designer and we must not speak ill of her. Nonsense. Ollie cries most days because of her - I will speak ill of Madame Argent until my tongue grows warts. I had wondered why she came to America at all, if her life in Windenburg was so wonderful. Her husband, God rest his soul, must have caught the influenza on purpose to escape her. Now I am done, Mother. I have vented all my anger to you. I hope you find it amusing, to some degree. Please do not tell Uncle Theo and Aunt Talia what I have told you of Olivia. I fear if Uncle Theo shows up at the mention of Olivia crying, he will brawl with Madame Argent, and quite frankly they are both too old for such nonsense. I will let you know the moment the situation improves. Laurie P.S. I promised I would talk about myself more but I’ve forgotten, and this is the last sheet of paper I have. I have work as a typist; it pays enough to cover my share of our rent but I refuse to be there longer than one year. Next week I will tell you more. Love always.

[cornyonmains]

Love routinely getting down to $5 in my checking account despite having been in the workforce 20 years because we're in a capitalist hellscape. I have a niche technical skill, am a professional typist, and I speak two languages.

These fucking Boomers, who got paid $64,000 a year to mind the desk at a fucking Jiffy Lube are out here like, "The best I can do is $30,000 a year," like my life is an episode of Pawn Stars. When I tell you that generation is a lead poisoned blight on the history of humanity, know that I am saying it with my whole chest.

My house is paid off and my heart is still ready to explode from all the financial stress I'm under. I don't know how people paying rent haven't fully fucking snapped yet.

[queenburd]

Some of the fellas, for your consideration:

Stanley: coder, suspicious and irritable, prone to coming up with stupid ideas and following through as hard as possible. Smart, with biting wit.

“Stan”: the Narrator’s true Stanley. Mellow, gentle with others, an incredible amount of stubbornness, determination, and optimism. Typist. Honestly a major dad friend, and prone to harmless pranks.

“S.P.”: one of the first fellas out of the Parable after Stan (but not THE first). Very sweet, quiet and artistic. One of the most physically affectionate. Was victim to a very nasty narrator who really damaged his self worth, but he’s been working on it since he was free.

“Lee”: bastard, consistently makes jokes and light of everything. Tends to try to get under people’s skin, as a bad habit of doing it to his narrator to have a sense of control and self in the Parable. Honestly very quick witted, but tends speak/act before he thinks. The Narrator found him to be very funny, which warmed him to the fellow quickly.

[hereticpriest]

Chew

Rating: Mature?

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x reader

This is a bit of a prequel to Bite, expanding upon the beginnings of their relationship. Soon to be followed by another prequel about their wedding night.

Warnings: Heavily implied odaxelagnia, letters of an intimate nature, flirting in the 1890s, period typical misogyny, period typical relationship culture.

Note: Szerelmem means 'my love' in Hungarian.

When you had first started your job as typist at the Kreizler Institute, you thought that you would have a small cubby tucked away somewhere in the bowels of the Institute. Somewhere where the good people who ran the Institute could forget that you existed until they had need of you, like any woman who dared have a job in these tumultuous times. Your interview with Dr. Kreizler had been perfunctory, but he had paid attention to you as you spoke, and he only interrupted you once, to stop a somewhat self-deprecating verbal spiral. He gave you a short test regarding your typing skills and ability to take dictation, reading over your results with a double-edged comment about your remarkable grasp of the spelling of complex medical terminology.

When you had arrived for your first day, you were surprised to find yourself led up to Dr. Kreizler's office, where a desk had been placed with a typewriter and appropriate supplies. The chair was comfortable, but you felt a little bit nervous under the heavy scrutiny of your boss. Thankfully, he was fair, and genuinely kind most of the time. He was wonderful with the children, and you truly admired the easy manner in which he spoke to them. He had a habit of prying, as if he needed to understand the way your mind worked, and you remember distinctly the moment you told him he couldn’t ever be capable of fully understanding your mind seeing as he was a man, and you were a woman. You had experiences he could never properly relate to.

That had certainly sparked one hell of a debate, but he hadn't been upset with you. Instead, he seemed to want to prove you wrong by way of dissecting your brain while you were meant to be working. He asked you questions endlessly, sometimes completely out of nowhere, and often those of a personal nature. However, you found yourself happy enough to speak to him, exposing your tenuous relationship with your parents, who were upset that you chose to have a job despite their intense desire for you to marry as soon as possible. He noticed your compulsion to chew the skin around your nails and asked you questions about it as if you were his patient rather than his typist. The following morning, you came into work to find a brand new pair of gorgeous gloves on your desk, and Dr. Kreizler suspiciously quiet.

Shortly after, you met the first of his friends, John Moore. He was very kind to you, with a certain sensitivity you weren’t used to seeing in high society men, though he always treated you as if you were very delicate. Next, came Sara Howard, a woman who impressed you very much as she was the first woman to ever work for the Police outside of cleaning staff. You both spent many a time together commiserating over the trials of working for men, though you felt a bit bad since you had much less to complain about than she did. Dr. Kreizler was very kind to you, if blunt and manipulative. He’d never made you feel uncomfortable in the way that men often made women feel uncomfortable, and he was respectful of your personal space. You often stayed at the Institute as late as he did, and he would always offer you his arm to walk you to his carriage, giving you a ride home safely, and walking you to the door despite you insisting it wasn’t necessary.

He was, however, prone to staring. It wasn’t like you thought he was staring at you - you were sure he was just lost in thought and not really seeing what he was looking at - but you could feel his eyes burning into you regardless and it had taken some time to get used to it. He was also prone to prying in ways that were considered socially inappropriate. He asked you about your fears, your dreams, your desires, and your relationship with your parents. He probed when you told him that your parents wanted you to marry instead of working for him. He asked about your prior suitors, or at least attempted suitors, and how you felt about them. Every time you helped with a case, be it criminal or simply a patient, he would demand your opinion and make you defend it.

The fact that he did it to everyone made it easier to handle - he didn’t think you were stupid and feel as if he needed to decipher your nonsensical thinking. On the contrary, he valued your opinion and thus wanted to hear it, and discuss it. He just wasn’t very good at the discussion part, and made it feel more like defending one’s scientific papers. Mr. Moore tended to get offended on your behalf when Dr. Kreizler did it in front of him, but you always took it in stride, and when you were done with the conversation or had run out of points, you simply had to admit it in order for the good doctor to leave you alone. He wasn’t trying to be a pest, he just liked a good argument to get his brain whirring. He liked dissecting every point to find the truth of a matter, and was very much open to considering the opinions of others, which was a rarity. He just made it seem like a fight when it was really his burning curiosity.

The brothers Isaacson entered Dr. Kreizler’s group last, and together they began to work on the case of the murders of young boy prostitutes. Mr. Moore protested your involvement like he did Sara’s, but you were a bit more gentle in telling him that you had a very strong stomach. You were, in fact, fascinated by the whole ordeal, which was a morbid fact you tried to keep to yourself lest you seem rather strange. You didn’t do any investigating yourself - you were simply there to take notes, and make copies of the files that Sara borrowed from the Police department. However, Dr. Kreizler brought you everywhere with him when he was investigating, offering you his arm and keeping himself between you and any other men to avoid you becoming uncomfortable. He was careful with you, and you appreciated that he took you into consideration when he brought you to less than appropriate places.

Note-taking for the investigators brought you to becoming somewhat comfortable in Dr. Kreizler’s home, as you all often met there, and Dr. Kreizler had a habit of thinking aloud when he was finished at a crime scene. He began asking you to come back with him to the house so that you could discuss the case, notes you had already taken, and what you were missing. Often, John Moore and Sara Howard would join you if they had the time, though you lied to your parents when you told them you were never actually alone with Dr. Kreizler. Countless times, you had curled up on the sofa across from him, talking until Cyrus or Stevie would have to remind you that you might want to leave before nightfall. The good doctor would come with you in the carriage even though he had no need to, and it always made you feel soft, even if he’d been rather annoying or mean that day.

It was only recently that things had begun to change.

Your parents were on a rampage - a backhanded reference to your wasted youth and beauty by one of their high society friends had sent them into a tizzy, and you found yourself the victim of near-constant badgering. They were insistent that you leave your job and let them find you a husband so you could raise your station and theirs. For a long portion of your employment, you’d been able to stave them off by promising that you did want to marry, you just wanted to experience the world a little bit first. Unsurprisingly, that had come to bite you in the ass. They had found a gentleman whose prospects were affected by his unfortunate stutter, and he was willing to overlook your want for employment. Your parents had given you a lecture the previous night, and made it very clear that you were going to marry this man when he asked. The ‘or else’ was implied, and had kept you up all night.

You stumble on the slight ridge where the door to Dr. Kreizler’s office closes, which he told you was used for privacy as it helped dampen sound. It’s the first time you’ve ever been careless enough to trip over it, and you find yourself caught in the stare of the good doctor, his honey-brown eyes scanning over you quickly as if looking for an explanation.

“Are you okay, Miss L/N?”

Something about the soft way he asks you causes a crack in your demeanour, and you nod, swiftly making your way to your desk.

“Of course, Doctor.”

A disbelieving hum answers you and you settle yourself at your desk, opening Dr. Kreizler’s journal to the marked page where you left off so you could resume your work. You lose yourself in it, the soft clicks of the typewriter lulling your mind enough that you don’t hear the doctor’s approach until his hand gently closes around your wrist, pulling your palm away from your mouth. He hisses air through his teeth as you stare, ashamed, at the mottled purple of your thenar eminence. You didn’t even realise you were doing it. You knew you had been biting last night after your lecture from your parents, however, you never thought you would unconsciously do it in the presence of Dr. Kreizler.

“Your biting habit worries me.” He states as he leans his hip against your desk so that he can look at you properly, “What troubles you?”

Another crack.

“Let me help you, Miss L/N.”

Spiderweb cracks spread across the glass separating you from your emotions. You have so little control of yourself left, so close to breaking. You close your eyes briefly, steadying yourself, then look up at your boss as calmly as you possibly can, “It is a childish matter, Doctor, I couldn’t possibly trouble you with it. Please excuse my behaviour.”

Dr. Kreizler sighs.

“Miss L/N, please tell me.” he asks a little more sincerely, and you shatter. Your bottom lip wobbles, and his fingers slip up from your wrist to wrap around your hand instead, an intimacy that makes both of your faces’ hot. His fingers slip through yours, and you stare at your hands instead of looking at him, nerves sparking at the intimacy.

“My parents want me to marry.” 

“So you’ve said.”

“Yes, well, they’ve found a man willing to take me on despite my questionable desire for employment.” You inform him, looking from your linked fingers to his face and noticing a tightening in his jaw.

“Ah.” He acknowledges, taking a breath, and for the first time you notice the flowers sitting on his desk, and the letter attached to them. You don’t forget your troubles so much as grab the distraction with both hands.

“Oh, those are lovely. I apologise for overstepping my bounds, however, may I ask who they’re for?” You ask, “You even wrote a letter. That’s so lovely, Dr. Kreizler.”

The doctor’s cheeks go pink, and he glances at the flowers before looking back at you, “Have you accepted his courtship?”

Your face falls, and you frown as he outright ignores your query, which seems almost worse than if he were to tell you off for it. But, you shake your head, looking away from him as you pull your hand free of his. He holds on for a moment longer before letting you go.

“He has yet to formally ask me, and thus I haven’t yet been forced to decline as I intend to.”

The tension in Dr. Kreizler’s shoulders ease, and you wet your lower lip as he leaves you, walking over to his desk and picking up the flowers. His nervousness rubs off on you, and you stand, following behind him.

“The flowers are for you. I know it is wholly unprofessional for me to propose courtship at your place of employment, however I believe we’ve surpassed the simple bonds of employer and employee to something more akin to friendship, so I hope you will forgive me. I-I know that I may not be what you want in a man… I have… deficiencies that may make you hesitant, and I know that I am difficult.” he says as he touches his right arm, which you knew about only because he had needed assistance one evening while you were at his home without anyone who knew about it, ”But I would take care of you in all ways. You would want for little, and of course, you would be able to continue your employment and pursuits of knowledge. I would never deny you anything simply for the fact of your gender.”

You’ve never thought of Dr. Kreizler that way. In the interest of keeping a professional relationship on both sides, and treating him with the same careful respect as he treated you, you had put his being a man firmly in the back of your mind. He was a doctor. He was a brilliant mind. He was your boss. He was something of a friend. Last, and very much least, he was a man. As you stare at him in shock, you begin to put latent thoughts together that you’ve often pushed to the back of your mind. He is a handsome man, with sweet honey-brown eyes and lovely brown hair. His body is appealing, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. His intelligence is attractive - you’ve always known it in the back of your mind, but you’ve ignored how that might’ve made you feel, instead focusing on the outcomes of his intelligence. He is well-groomed, from his pristine facial hair to his fantastic outfits, which you know cost a pretty penny. He has always cared for you, and shown you some of the best sides of himself to balance the times when he is more difficult. His weaker hand ghosting across your back when he helps you from the carriage while his strong hand holds yours to steady you comes to mind when you think of how he cares for you. Your father has never shown that much care for your mother - your coachman helps your mother from the carriage while your father marches on ahead.

You realise with a start that Dr. Kreizler is everything you’ve ever said you wanted when you considered marriage. And as you examine the softness and the twinge of hope in his eyes, you realise that you do actually want this. You want him. Your cheeks grow hot as you realise that you truly, honestly, deeply do want him. And he just asked if you would let him court you.

A surprised ‘oh!’ escapes your lips in a rush of air, and you take the flowers from him, staring at them in shock.

“I… I would accept, should you propose courtship, Dr. Kreizler. I thank you for asking me rather than my parents, however, my family is old fashioned and you… well, you would need to ask my father as well.” You admit, and he seems surprised that you agreed, which hurts your heart.

“I had intended on pursuing this properly, once I knew your desires on the matter.”

“And now you do. Perhaps you should call on my father.”

“I will.” He assures you, and you stare into his eyes for a moment, holding your flowers to your chest like he might try to take them back.

“Good. I will await the good news.” You reply with a firm nod, and a smile creeps across your face like you’re trying to restrain it, mirrored on his own. You head over to your desk, and he moves quickly to pull your chair out for you, drawing a shy smile to your lips. You spend the rest of your day at work listening to the soft rumble of Dr. Kreizler’s voice and trying quite hard not to laugh when three separate patients, two of the other workers at the Institute, and John Moore remark on the man being in a particularly good mood today.

That evening, a knock comes at your door, and you wait with baited breath, hiding at the top of the stairs as Dr. Laszlo Kreizler asks your father for permission to court you. His proposal is professionally detached, running off of what you’ve told him about your parents, and emphasising that he would like to pursue marriage swiftly. Your father knows exactly who the good doctor is - he had done his research when you began working for him - and he is aware of exactly how wealthy the man is. His social status has suffered from his career choice and his strange views, but he’s still above the man they’d intended for you, and they knew you would be well-looked upon for getting the man to finally settle down. It would look good on him to marry a high class woman with good standing as well.

You stand up quickly as you hear your mother approaching the stairs, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees you, looking happy about you for the first time in a long while. She encourages you to come down, and as you approach her, she teases you gently about having a gentleman suitor and that perhaps she should have seen the wisdom of you working with a well-to-do man as if this had all been your plan. You’re happy enough to let her believe what she likes so long as she isn’t angry with you. You had changed after returning home from work, and now wore a dinner gown that was much prettier than much of the clothing Dr. Kreizler - Laszlo, as he’d asked you to start calling him - had ever seen you wear. He brightens at the sight of you, and you smile demurely, taking your father’s arm delicately.

“Dr. Kreizler has come to ask to court you, darling.” He says as he pats your hand on his arm fondly, as if he hadn’t been arguing with you a short few hours ago. You smile with a bit of faux surprise on your face, and you give your father’s arm an encouraging squeeze.

“Well, with your approval, Father, I will most heartily accept.” You reply, and you smile as Laszlo holds out a sealed letter to you, taking it from him and tucking it into one of your pockets. He kisses the back of your hand and bids you all farewell, promising to return in the next week or two to get to know your family better, and asking your parents if it would be acceptable to take you for a chaperoned walk this coming Saturday. You bite the inside of your cheek to hide your excitement, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you try to keep your cool in front of your parents.

You tear into your letter and drown yourself in his words, his proclamations of adoration and desire. He begins with a softer tone - how surprised he was when you came in for your interview, the way you provoked his mind, how impressed he was to find that you’d read not only his own work but the work of other alienists. How you coaxed him to open up piece by piece, in ways he hadn’t expected. How you’d encouraged him to see some of the little joys in life when you’d brought him to the rooftop gardens and told him what each of the flowers was. The way he loved to hear your opinions on cases, be they criminal or patients of the Institute, for you always surprised him with a new perspective.

Next, he professes little intimacies. You were wrong when you’d assumed he wasn’t staring at you and was simply lost in thought. He admits to getting lost in the soft curve of your smile, the delicate click of your fingers on the keys of the typewriter, and the way you sometimes hum while you’re working. He loves the way you grip his bicep in your hand when you walk together, and the gentle flex of your fingers when you get excited by something you see, or the clench of your hand when you get annoyed by something. That you trust him so deeply as he helps you from the carriage, barely looking where you’re going as he guides you, trusting him to keep you safe. How his heart races when your knees bump together in the carriage, or when you let him place his hand on your lower back to guide you through a crowd at Delmonico’s. How he dreams of the soft curve of your back, and what it might look like unbound.

By the end of the letter, your heart is racing just as he’d professed his own had raced, and you lay back on your bed after you’ve unburdened yourself of your day’s clothing with the help of your maid. Alone, you hide yourself under layers of blankets, your hand between your thighs as you read your doctor’s private words for you. You stroke your pleasure from sparks to a fire, eyelashes brushing against your cheekbones as you toss your head back into the pillows, a silent cry caught in your throat. Guilt burdens you afterwards in the cold dark of your bedroom, and you slip from your bed to sit at your desk in your nightdress, writing in a flurry to your doctor. Now, with the last remnants of your act of devotion cooling on your inner thighs, your writing is sinful. But your doctor does not believe in a God, nor the binds that society places on a man and a woman, and he will not shame you for your weakness. Perhaps he will even take himself in hand like you did, and devote himself to you in love and sin.

The idea of it burns you, and you bite your trembling lip as you write about what you’d done with his name upon your lips, hidden under metaphors that he will doubtless understand. By the time you’re done, you know this letter should be burnt. If you were a good, pious, proper woman you would walk down the stairs to the fire in the fireplace and burn the letter to avoid anyone seeing your shameful words. You seal it, then slip it into the pocket of your coat, crawling into bed and getting comfortable for the night. The following morning, your face is burning as you place the letter into Laszlo’s hand, and he gives you a discreet smile that only worsens the feeling until you settle at your desk to pretend you aren’t an unprofessional ball of embarrassment.

You hear a soft gasp, and your eyes meet Laszlo’s as he reads your letter, his cheeks burning. He coughs, adjusting in his seat, and folds the letter, presumably to read later. A wise choice. You giggle, and he smiles despite himself, turning his gaze back to his papers. You admire him for a moment longer to make up for all the time you’ve wasted not gazing at him, then turn back to your work, excited for the future. Hopefully, he won’t make you wait too long to be wed. It seems almost a waste to delay any longer.

You find yourself engaged no more than two months later.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Staffing Inbalances

Work's becoming a bigger mess.

See, every once in awhile, we get new trainees. We just got new trainees. We got a lot of new trainees. Which means we're generating more typing. We were barely managing as it was and now we're getting more typing per day and we're not going to be able to keep up for long.

Look, here's the situation.

We have ... approximately five typists, though technically only the man-hours of four. (Two of us are part-time, but the other one only does, like, two days a week.) The full-timers are mostly 9:00-17:00 with an hour for lunch, though Goblin tends to be a little more 10:00-17:30 with a half-hour for lunch because she works from home same as I do. I personally work 11:00-17:00 (Tuesdays and Wednesdays) or 11:00-17:30 (Thursdays and Fridays). So the last of us has generally speaking logged off for the day by 17:30, and it's only really Scruffman, our manager, who's logged on at 8:00.

The doctors, on the other hand, start dictating reports at about 7:45 and if we're lucky, they finish at 18:00. And there are a lot more than five of them. Now, keeping in mind that they're dictating stuff in between cutting bits of medical specimen into bits and examining said bits, we can theoretically get a report typed faster than they can dictate one. Not always, because some are into the word salad, but mostly, yeah. Still. There are more of them than there are us, and their shifts overlap in such a way that those "more of them" are working a longer day than we do, so we're coming to the end of the shift with the queue getting longer by great leaps and bounds by doctors trying to cram in a few more reports before close of play.

The typists' primary objective is to at least get the previous business day's typing cleared and hopefully make a start on that day's typing before close of play on any given day. We've been managing. Barely. I don't think we'll be managing as of next week. There are two reasons for this:

The last few days, the doctors have been generating about 200-250 reports per day, on average. Today? Nearly four hundred. In this, I am only counting the 326 reports that were in the queue when I logged off for the day, the forty-odd reports that I typed over the course of the day (a little over half of those being urgents, because urgents take priority), and the few that Goblin deigned to pick up. And they were still working when we logged off.

There was an email from Scruffman today. Temp wasn't in today, and our other part-timer was only working half her usual hours, and since she's on short hours anyway... We were understaffed. So badly understaffed.

Because of both of those things, I pushed it way harder than I should have. I mean, significantly. I did over 100 reports today, and a lot of them were ... not short. No eighteen minute long monstrosities, but New Girl and Goblin had taken all the shorter ones and were apparently dawdling over those so I ended up with the 5-10 minute word salads and the fiddly and annoying placenta cut-ups and even the shorter ones I typed were by and large by the Annoyances. And despite the typing queue being stuck at 300+ for most of the day, New Girl and Goblin still fucking dawdled. I got two or more of the word salads done between each and every one of their reports - I checked.

But pushing myself past my limits has consequences. And worst of all, I had to go out to the shops after all that. So I am in a stupendous amount of pain right now. And next week looks like it's going to be a horror show. For fuck's sake, we should not fall apart like this when we have an absence! But they're hiring badly right now - they want all the reports done, so they get a whole bunch of new trainee doctors to get them all dictated, but they don't stop to think about the people who have to type the fucking things.

If I can even halfway recover from today over the course of the weekend, it'll be a fucking miracle.

[digitalbath1988]

Save A Horse, Ride Soldier Boy Part 2

The first of my requests! Part 1 is on A03 and I’ll link in comments.

Pegging Homie fanfic should happen over the weekend ❤️❤️❤️

TW: highly dubious consent, throat fucking, PIV sex, soldier boy being a douchebag, period appropriate sexism

April 1954

The office was nearly abandoned, most executives were on Easter holiday with their families. Not Dr. Vought. The man always had energy for running his empire. Thus, Esther was waiting until later on to take a week off. Although, given her financial status as a widowed mother of two, probably all she’d afford to do would be sit around her cramped apartment and take her kids to the park.

She’d been assigned to Dr. Vought’s favorite conference room today, a sterile modern space with walls painted light blue and white furniture. The man himself was out at some sort of off site meeting to look into making toys of the Supes. It sounded so silly!

Esther clicked away, a bit less stressed today as she didn’t have the pressure and deadlines of the busy typist pool. The stack of work was still impressive, but she knew she’d get through it before the meeting she’d been asked to join for Dr. Vought.

In preparation, she pulled out her compact quickly to check her appearance. She didn’t even have a chance to powder before a face appeared behind her in the mirror.

“Hi sweet cheeks. Heard you were holed up in here. Surprise, it’s me.” Soldier Boy grinned at her. Today she could smell alcohol leaking from his pores, she marveled at how sober he looked.

“You’re supposed to be overseas!” Esther half asked, half accused.

“Sure was. But Fredrick Vought flew me back here for some photos and measurements for this toy idea he has.” He sat down next to her while she continued typing away. Esther pretended her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest.

His hand followed hers on the typewriter. Esther sighed as the page went from perfect typing to jibberish in a second, weighing in her mind starting over or trying to correct it.

“He’s gonna be gone for maybe two more hours. How about you keep me entertained until then?”

“No.” Esther said tersely, to make her feelings clear.

He looked furious for just a second, before bursting into laughter.

“No?!” he mocked, getting bodily closer. His warm laughter washed over her like an over-tight bear hug. “You almost sound serious about that, doll.”

“I am!” Esther huffed.

“You sound adorable too. Tell you what- you’ve got five whole minutes to get naked.” He smirked.

She glared back. “Sir, what happened last time was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t a goddamn mistake, Miss Davis.” He gripped her thigh hard. “I’ll tell you the truth- you needed that shit just as much as I did. Now, don’t be a fucking brat. You’ve got four minutes left.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Three.”

He glowered at her.

“Someone will see us.” Esther said as a last ditch effort.

“We’ve got the whole floor to ourselves, you could probably scream your head off and nobody would know. Two.”

Esther thought about what he’d said last time about her job status, how Dr. Vought valued Soldier Boy over a lowly typist, and how she needed to feed and care for her children with this money. “Fine.” She said, standing up.

“One minute left.” He said with a maddening eyebrow raised. Esther glared again as she pulled down her skirt and unbuttoned her top. He seemed unaffected by her discomfort, he just grinned as she pulled off her bra and panties. “Atta girl.” His hands eagerly grabbed at her bare hips, pulling her back towards him, close enough so he could speak into her ear. “I’m gonna mess up that lipstick you’ve got on. On your knees.”

“But!”

“On your knees RIGHT NOW.” He barked.

Esther complied, having an idea of where this was going based on much more pleasant times with James when he was still alive. She unzipped his tight pants, secretly admiring the way his obscene bulge looked in them. What is wrong with me? “See, I knew you were a smart girl.” That already enormous, semi-hard appendage of his snapped to life like a soldier giving a salute, as she gave it a tentative lick on the underside. She got to work trying to please this poor tempered man. He hissed through his teeth.

He’d been right about the lipstick, it smudged red all over the shaft of his cock, until eventually she’d consumed it an a frantic effort to please. It was a messy, sex frenzied experience. Esther wasn’t the least bit surprised to feel his hand on her head, undoing the carefully pinned and curled updo she wore everyday. The pins were flung carelessly to the floor, and his hands went into her now unencumbered hair, pushing her down further on his cock. She was gagging, helpless and slick with her own drool, as more and more of his dick went into her mouth and throat.

“Those assholes in the office said they couldn’t assign you to me today because Dr. Vought needed you, fuck, think I need you more doll. I knew that damn mouth was talented.” He kept shoving himself in, using her mouth like it was a cunt. She gagged so hard she almost threw up, but somehow choked the bile back.

He stopped short of filling her mouth, an almost predatory smile on his face. “Did I do something wrong?” She asked, suddenly nervous.

Soldier Boy didn’t answer, he just pushed her up against the glass door of the conference room. She put her hands against it as a reflex. “What are you?!” A hand snaked around her mouth, muffling her. Another groped at her body, examining her as if she was a piece of meat. Finally it braced itself against her breasts. She yelled, helplessly muted, into the red gloved hand. A (now sopping wet) cock rubbed and pressed itself inside her cunt, and a male groan resonated behind her. “Even better than that whore mouth of yours.” She couldn’t process, just heard a slapping sound as he pounded her, a delicate balance between the glass and their bodies. He jerked her body back by her tits, then forward, then moved his hand to her hips and repeated the movement. She bit into the hand on her mouth, which only triggered a even more brutal fucking, however he moved that hand to her hips too. Now Esther was genuinely concerned that they’d break the door.

What a sight they’d be if someone happened to walk by, her naked except for stockings and garters, tits distorted against the glass, in contrast to the nearly fully clothed Soldier Boy. She really would look like a whore, and she doubted anyone would believe that she hadn’t asked for this. As if to distract her from her pesky thoughts, he started to apply gentle pressure to her clit.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying it.”

“You’re a bad, bad man, how dare you!” Esther cried out, although the pressure inside her got dangerously close to eruption.

“You keep telling yourself that, sugar tits. Pretend like you don’t look at my cock every chance you get. You need it as much as I do.” She moaned at his nasty words, and he pressed harder against her nub, triggering an embarrassing flood, which only stroked his ego. He laughed and fucked her harder as she shivered out an intense climax. “Don’t be embarrassed, I tend to have that effect on women.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already are.” He flipped her around and jacked himself off on her face, as if to humiliate her even further and ruin the remnants of her perfect matte makeup.

“Tongue out next time I do that,” he mentioned. “You’ve got ten minutes to clean yourself up before he gets here.”

The yellow light in the bathroom almost felt more heavenly than depressing. Esther’s orgasm had left her in a soft focus, glossy reverie. Her hopes that no one would interrupt were granted. She did the best she could to fix her hair and makeup, before returning to the conference room.

“Oh, Soldier Boy, have you met Miss Davis?” Asked Dr. Vought as she sat down. Soldier Boy nodded. “She helped me out a couple of times in a pinch. What a great gal you’ve got there, sir.”

Esther had to keep her face friendly and neutral, and went about taking the notes for the toy venture, before eventually Soldier Boy was brought elsewhere for measurements and photos. She could have sworn Dr. Vought gave her a strange look, but there was nothing she could do for it.

A day later and the receptionist called her downstairs. Esther panicked, thinking that she’d been seen getting fucked up against the glass door the other day. But her heart stopped pounding so hard as the grumpy old woman indicated a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and a card.

The card was about as sentimental as she’d expect. “Already looking forward to seeing you in three weeks.”

—-